Shepherd

The sky strata  grow wider for the asking.
You asking you want to be the shepherd
In mountains to negotiate endless space.
Your flock has endless feet for counting.
You know you want to stop conversation.

Your weather is sun hid in backyard tree.
Its rain is deep in hiding in a beach sea.
Its clouds are nightly television thunder.
Moon has tell-tale circles like tired eyes.
They tell you rain may or may not come.

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Watercolor

We came upon the waters, in themselves,
That ran deep, under rain drops on rocks
Their music falling softly on the morning
As birds ran counter to embedded trees.

It was the music of the bodies from a mind.
The leaves fell gently from rain and clouds,
Their textures collected most of the ecstacy
From a sound of meaning, their sensations
On the skin perking up as if to a first rain .

The textures of the rocks broke their skies.
The hues in them wavered as cotton- white
Corrugations ,with birds caught in the folds
Like tiny v’s from God’s free hand drawings .
Rocks merged in the sky and water flowed
Like the music of the birds caught in clouds
That were birds not yet caught in the trees.

Detritus

A lot has come out of the detritus
A morning wet with the night’s rain
Birds pecking at a sky for more rain.
Like on the next day of lights festival
The kids look for unlighted crackers
It is   fun to set them off one by one
Near many windows ,to scare ghosts
Sleeping under their winter blankets.

 
Birds are kids looking for some fun.
They forget the loss of the loved ones
That went last year not to come back,
The detritus of last year’s warm nest
Feathers strewn around on a cat’s visit
Screaming ghosts from warm stomach.
They forgive the cat and the detritus.
They forgive the unyielding July sky.
Their beaks  peck at the sky for  rain.

Dark creepers,white flowers

 

Muted conversations are heard in the street
In the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.
Women squat on the steps of their houses
To discuss  kids, husbands and neighbors.
Their memories go back to other evenings
Of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors,
Of the  pretty floral designs before houses
Other women made in rice powder and color.
The incense smoke from  four-armed gods
Enters the streets, reaches up to the tall trees
And electric wires, goes up in silken  swirls.
As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out
From loving mother creepers on the houses
Like the stars we  see burst on our roof at night.

River steps

River steps are wet with village women’s baths.
A golden sunlight floods their mornings in boats
Leaving early for mountains on wrinkled rivers.
Giant banyans greet them from the other bank
Spreading their shadows of hair on the blue sky.

Mornings are for sun, palms cupped with water
Looking the sun in the eye, lips softly trembling
With prayers, as white wet clothes cling to body.

On the river bed, the buffaloes bath in shallows,
Unperturbed by the sun flashing in vacant eyes,
Like little rocks in the bed laid smooth and bare
By a dried up river, after last year’s flash floods.

Rain

Rain in the afternoon makes less noise
On a napping mind, more on a dulled skin
The way it tickles it by the wind from trees
And comes in instalments like crow-caws
And rice poundings in neighbour houses.

Half -awake eyes are shut in old thoughts
As certain rain of day and sun on the side,
Rain and sun married like dogs and foxes.
It is at leaf-ends that rain-magic happens.
The sun trains a flashing mirror into room
Way past gaps in curtains, on to the wall.

Who started the wind?

In the river, you look up from the waters,
And see the wind walking down calmly
From the hills that have holes at the top.

On your feet, if joined in a lotus posture
At the river’s bottom, the wind will push
Through currents smelling of the far hills.
Your face can smell the wind in the river
Where it touches your cheeks, in caress.

Surely the trees have not started the wind.
The trees just shake as though they did it.
It is not even a sea of giant rolling waves.
Those just pretend they brought it about.

It seems the wind comes from upstream
Riding down to the sea on the river’s back.
The sea hosts the wind from all the hills.
Who originated the wind is now answered
Finally and without equivocation, after all.